


Last Shot

by Adolphus Longestaffe (adolphus_longestaffe)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Maybe dream sex, One Shot, Possible Hallucinations, Reaper Tentacle Sex, SEP Era Gabriel Reyes, SEP Era Jack Morrison, Young Jack getting pretty much perforated by Old Reaper and liking it, Young Jack is Kinky AF, Young Jack/Old Reaper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 12:48:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13927452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adolphus_longestaffe/pseuds/Adolphus%20Longestaffe
Summary: Jack gets his final injection as part of the SEP enhancement regimen. The last shot is always the most difficult, and sometimes has some...odd side-effects._______________





	Last Shot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EdgeLady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgeLady/gifts).



The sixth injection is the roughest, they tell him. Hallucinations, cold sweat, blurred vision, memory loss, blackouts. He stares at his already unnaturally-muscular arm as the med tech cinches it with a strip of rubber.

“Hallucinations?” he asks.

“Yeah,” the tech says, pulling it tighter. It pinches his skin and he winces. “People see some wild shit. Who’s your mentor?”

“Reyes.”

The tech nods. “Good. He’ll be able to help you through it. His was bad. No one could handle him, so we had to toss him in the lockup.”

“Jesus,” Jack says.

He feels the familiar sting of the needle and the burn of whatever this shit is flowing into his vein. This one hurts more than the others. Burns like molten lead in his blood. He clutches his arm and bends his elbow back and forth to stretch it out.

“All done,” the tech says. “Hurts, huh?”

Jack nods. His forehead is already beaded with sweat. He lifts a shaking hand to mop his brow.

“Yeah. Sorry, Morrison. This is the last one, though.”

“How long till it, uh…wears off?”

“Couple days. I’d tell you not to eat anything else today, but you won’t be able to. Take a lot of fluids, stay in your room. Oh, and stay away from sharp objects. Seriously. Knives, forks, pens and pencils, anything like that.”

Jack laughs uneasily. His vision is already beginning to go wobbly. “What, really?”

“Yeah. But Reyes is your mentor, so I wouldn’t worry. He’ll know what to do.”

“Thanks.”

Jack walks out of the exam room on unsteady legs. Reyes, god damn him, is already waiting outside. He’s leaning on the wall smirking sardonically, and easily looking cooler than Jack has ever been or could ever hope to be. He sees Jack and his grin dissolves.

“Hey, Morrison,” he says, leaning over to look into Jack’s pale face. “It’s hitting you this hard already?”

Jack gives a start and blinks about him, like he’s not sure if Reyes was talking to him.

“Yep,” Reyes says, laying a hand on Jack’s shoulder. It’s large and heavy and warm. Jack shivers. “Let’s get you to your room before I have to carry you.”

Jack wants to shake Reyes’ hand off and tell him he can walk on his fucking own, but he’s afraid he’ll vomit if he makes any sudden movements, so he keeps his mouth shut and lets himself be led down the hall. He doesn’t remember it being this long before. It seems like it’s getting longer as they walk. He turns his head slowly, trying to focus on the drab-green blob that’s walking past them.

“What’s up, Reyes,” a man’s voice says. “Your baby duck looks pretty sick.”

“Last shot,” Reyes answers gruffly.

“Hey, Morrison,” the man laughs. “Boo!”

Jack doesn’t react. He can’t. It takes his brain too long to process that the man was trying to scare him. The next thing he is aware of is a Reyes-shaped blob taking the drab-green blob and shoving it against the wall.

“Fuck off, McDaniel,” Reyes snarls. “Unless you want me to remind everyone how you cried and pissed yourself during yours.”

“Jesus, Reyes, calm down,” the drab-green blob says. “I was just fucking around.”

Jack guesses the man went away, because he feels Reyes’ hand on his shoulder and they’re moving down the hallway again. He starts to think maybe it will never end. He’ll just be walking down it like this forever. With Reyes. The hallway warps and twists around him, then he’s falling. He opens his mouth to cry out and gets a mouthful of his pillow.

“It’s just your bed, boyscout, you’re ok,” Reyes laughs from somewhere a million miles behind him.

Jack groans and curls into a ball on his side. He hears Reyes moving around. He drags his eyes open and sees the Reyes-shaped blob. He’s strolling about Jack’s room, picking things up, touching his personal effects like he owns them. Jack’s face flushes with indignation.

“What…what the fuck are you…doing,” he says feebly.

“I’m stowing anything you could use to injure yourself,” Reyes says coolly. He’s carrying a chair now. He places it by the side of Jack’s bed and sits. “They warned you, right?”

Jack doesn’t answer. He can’t. His eyes force themselves shut and he gives another feeble moan. It’s so fucking hot in here. His throat is parched and he’s sweating through his shirt. He tries to pull it off, but his arms are too weak. Every movement sends pain searing through his trembling muscles. He feels strong, calloused hands on him. They burn his clammy skin like a brand. Reyes is doing something to him. Sitting him up. Pulling off his sweat-soaked undershirt. Jack blinks his big, glassy, blue eyes up at him.

“Thanks,” he manages to croak out.

Reyes shrugs. “Hey, I’ve been through it, too. I’m sure they told you about it.”

“Said…they locked…you up,” Jack mumbles.

“Yep,” Reyes chuckles.

It’s a smooth, sonorous sound that hits Jack’s ears like music. He wants him to do it again. So badly he almost cries. It must show on his face, because Reyes asks him what’s wrong.

“No,” Jack says. “I…like it…your laugh.”

He tries to focus on Reyes face. He would swear that—no, it can’t be—but it is. There is a slightly deeper shade of color in the man’s caramel-brown cheeks. Jack is trying to understand what that might mean and why it might make his stomach do flips this way, when Reyes stands abruptly.

“No, Reyes,” Jack implores. “Please…don’t go.”

“Relax, boyscout,” Reyes replies over his shoulder. “I’m just getting you something to drink. You’re going to sweat yourself to death.”

Jack nods and it makes his head spin. He hugs himself and squeezes his eyes shut. He’s getting cold again now, too. He falls back down onto his pillow and tries to make his arms move. He just has to get the blanket over himself. He just has to…he gives a painful start. Big, strong hands are lifting him up again.

“No, you don’t. You need to get some fluid into you, or you’re going to dehydrate.”

Something hard is being pressed to Jack’s lips. The rim of a plastic bottle. He swallows the sweet, citrusy sports drink in ravenous gulps.Then his blood freezes in his veins. That voice, the voice that said that…it wasn’t Reyes. He can’t seem to get his eyes open, but sight isn’t Jack’s only enhanced sense. It still smells like Reyes. It _feels_ like Reyes. The same hot hand on the back of his neck, holding him steady as he swallows the drink.

With his feeble, failing strength, he lifts his hands and pushes the bottle away. Some of the cold liquid splashes onto his bare chest, making him gasp. The voice that isn’t Reyes laughs. A dry, hollow, metallic laugh. Like a demon. Icicles of terror shoot up Jack’s spine. His heart pounds. He realizes with a sudden sinking feeling of horror that his eyes are already open. They have been open all along. He can’t see. He gives a groan that comes out like a whine.

“Who…who are you,” he pants. “Where’s Captain Reyes?”

“What’s the matter Jack,” the voice says mockingly. “Don’t know an old friend when you see one?”

“I can’t—I can’t see,” Jack says, squirming helplessly against the iron grip on the back of his neck. “Blind. I’m blind.”

The voice gives a sound like a grunt. “You’re not blind, Jack. That’s me. Sorry about that.”

Jack struggles to comprehend this response. The tone is all wrong. It’s casual. _Familiar_. He doesn’t have time to think about it. Something is happening. The blackness over his vision is swirling and roiling, like oily storm clouds. It is receding. Coalescing. He stares wide-eyed at the thick, heavy, black vapor, curling and collapsing, drawing into itself as the room begins to come into view around him. It moves like…nothing he’s ever seen. His immediate reaction is wonder. A shiver of awe, like one feels the first time they see the Earth from outer space.

“Beautiful,” he breathes.

“What?” the metallic voice says beside him.

“I—I said it’s beautiful,” Jack replies, almost in a whisper. “What is it?”

“I told you, it’s…me.”

Jack turns toward the voice and gives a start, then laughs out loud. The black smoke all over the room is curling together and solidifying, forming itself into what appears to be a black, hooded cloak draped about the head and shoulders of a figure sitting in the chair where Reyes had been. What has made Jack laugh is that the figure is also wearing a bone-white mask shaped like some sort of owl’s skull.

The masked figure makes a sound like an irritated huff. Its smoke tendrils swirl and roil as it does, like a cat's tail swishing in annoyance. This makes Jack laugh harder.

“Hey, how are you doing that?” he asks, in a much steadier, stronger voice than he’d been able to muster before. “It’s amazing.”

The masked figure drops Jack’s head onto his pillow and draws its black-gloved hand away. It crosses its arms and taps its sharp, steel claws on its forearm.

“You’re not afraid of me,” it says at last. It’s not a question.

Jack shakes his head. “No. They told me I’d hallucinate. See some really weird shit. But I never imagined anything like…you.”

The mask cocks to the side a bit. The black eyepits seem to be studying Jack’s face intently. Jack stares back, utterly undaunted. The thing about hallucinating had been mostly true. But he has a feeling he wouldn’t be afraid of this creature in any circumstances. There’s something about it. An energy, almost. Jack can _feel_ that it won’t hurt him. Not intentionally, at least. He looks at those steel claws again and gives a shudder. He imagines them, sharp and cold on his hot skin, raking long, bloody lines down his back.

“What are you?” Jack asks.

The mask turns away. It almost looks…wounded somehow. Like Jack’s question has caused it pain.

“A monster,” it rasps. “What’s wrong with you, kid? Don’t know a monster when you see one?”

“That’s what you asked me about an old friend,” Jack says. “So what are you? A monster or an old friend?”

“Both,” it says slowly. “I’m…both.”

Jack tries to push himself up to a sitting position, but this proves to be a more difficult proposition than it had seemed. His muscles are too weak and they shake as he exerts himself to this small degree. The creature reaches out its steel-clawed hands and helps him. As he swings his legs over the side of the bed, the blanket falls aside, and Jack becomes aware that he is completely naked. Who the fuck undressed him? Jack has never been shy about nudity, and his time in the military has reduced that bit of modesty to almost nothing, but he pulls the blanket back over his lap, out of courtesy to his imaginary friend.

They’re sitting facing each other now, knees almost touching. Jack gazes curiously at the bone mask. The eyepits gaze back, silent and unmoving.

“Can I—” Jack hesitates. “Can I touch you?”

The creature leans back in its chair and crosses its muscular arms over what appears to be a rather broad, well-built chest.

“You want…to touch me,” it says. It’s phrased less as a question and more as a dubious statement. It laughs that hollow, guttural laugh again. “Leave it to Jack Morrison to want to touch the devil. Were you ever afraid of anything?”

“Is that what you are?” Jack asks. “The devil?”

“You believe in the devil?”

“No.”

“Then how can I be the devil, Jack?”

“You can’t, but I have to call you something.”

The creature pauses a long time. When it speaks again, Jack is certain it had been about to say something else, but had changed its mind.

“The Reaper,” it says. “You can call me Reaper.”

“Like, the grim reaper?” Jack smirks. “Is that why you’re wearing that skull mask thing?”

“I’m wearing this skull mask thing because I like it,” Reaper growls. “Fuck off.”

“Wait, if you’re the Reaper, does that mean I’m dying? Are you here for me?”

Reaper doesn’t answer. He stares into Jack with those black eyepits, and this time, Jack does feel a chill of something almost like fear. A cold, sick feeling creeping into the pit of his stomach. He swallows in a dry throat.

“Are you…here to kill me, Reaper?”

The creature remains silent.

“You can’t kill me,” Jack says, attempting to sound cool and confident, the way Reyes would. “You’re not even real. You’re a hallucination from the injection they gave me.”

He leans forward and grasps at the thing’s thigh, half expecting to feel nothing but air. Instead, his open palm lands on something solid and hard. He looks down with a start. Body armor. At the touch, something like a shudder passes through Reaper’s large, black-clad body. His vapor swells and curls around him, almost protectively. Jack’s blue eyes dart back up to his mask.

“You feel…very real,” he says breathlessly. He doesn’t remove his hand.

Calmly, almost absently, Reaper reaches out and brushes the tousled locks of blonde hair back from Jack’s forehead. A cold claw touches Jack’s overheated skin and he shivers. He stares at Reaper’s mask, lips parted, chest rising and falling with his rapid, shallow breaths. His heart pounds with…not fear…something else.

“Fuck,” Reaper says softly. Almost… _tenderly_. “Fuck you, Jack. Always so fucking pretty.”

“You think…I’m pretty?” Jack asks cautiously.

“You think you are, too,” Reaper replies sardonically. “Cocky fuck.”

Something in his tone—his manner of saying this—it reminds Jack of…someone. Reyes. It reminds Jack of Reyes. He smiles.

“Reyes,” he says, half to himself.

Reaper’s body responds as if Jack has struck him. He’s been leaning languidly back in the chair till now, but he tenses up and snaps rigidly upright. The black vapor boils around the mask, growing thicker and blacker as more seems to pour out of his body. A long, slender tendril of it lashes at Jack like a whip. It coils around his neck and squeezes. Not enough to stop his breath, but enough to terrify him.

Jack’s hands fly up instinctively to pry it loose. The surface—which is ridiculous, vapor can’t have a surface, can it?—is too slick for him to dig his fingers into. Not slippery. Smooth and dry like a snake. It constricts. Now it is stopping his breath. He wraps both hands around it as Reaper rises from his chair and towers over him. His smoke tentacle thing lifts Jack up off his bed by the neck and draws him closer, till his face is within centimeters of the mask.

The blood is roaring in jack’s ears. He kicks with his bare foot, sending pain stabbing into his toes as they connect with heavy body armor. Just as spots are creeping into his vision, Reaper’s smoke tentacle releases him. He drops heavily onto his bed and lies there gasping for breath. Reaper stands over him, the hollow pits of the mask gaping down at him. Watching him.

“Holy—holy fucking shit,” Jack pants, pushing himself back up with surprising alacrity. “You’re really—strong.”

Reaper stares at him silently as he climbs to his knees. Jack’s pupils are blown so wide, his blue eyes are almost black. His lean, muscular body is flushed and pink and his long, thick, perfect cock is hanging heavy and half-hard between his thighs.

“You’re still not afraid of me,” Reaper says. Behind the mask, Jack could almost swear the monster is smiling. “Same old Jack.”

“I’m not afraid of you because you don’t want me to be,” Jack says, holding the eyepits in his gaze. “You’re not going to kill me, Reaper. You’re not even going to hurt me. Not unless…I ask you to.”

Those thick, black tendrils of smoke curl toward Jack again. He watches them, fascinated, but not at all afraid. This is not an aggressive gesture, and he can sense it. One coils around his thigh. Another snakes up his forearm and wraps around his throat. Not choking him this time. Caressing him. Gliding its smooth, warm surface luxuriously over his skin as if it can feel him, too. Jack’s big, blue eyes flutter shut as its tapered end curls up into his hair, crawling over his scalp, raising goosebumps all down his back and chest.

“Can you—ah!” He gasps as the one coiling about his thighs pushes itself between them and brushes against his balls. “Can you feel that?”

“Yes,” Reaper says. “I can feel it. It’s me.”

“Christ, they—you’re so warm,” Jack breathes.

He is aware of being lifted again, this time gently, and drawn toward Reaper. He gasps and his blue eyes fly open. He’d expected to feel cold, hard body armor. But as his body came in contact with Reaper’s, he felt smooth, warm human skin against his skin. He looks down to find that the armor has vanished, as if by magic. Instead, he is looking at the broad, muscular chest of a man. Pale and horribly scarred, but beautiful. He reaches up and strokes the patch of thick, curly, black hair. The smoke tendrils heat up a little and squeeze him more tightly, as if in response, pressing him into Reaper’s chest.

“Reaper,” Jack whispers, raising his blue eyes to the mask. “Can I…take off your mask?”

Reaper stares silently. Jack lifts his hands, but two smoke tendrils whip up and coil about his wrists. They hold him firmly, but not forcefully. He tugs against them and finds that they let him move freely.

“Please, Jack,” Reaper rasps hoarsely. “Please don’t.”

Jack frowns. “I won’t be afraid of you. No matter what your face looks like.”

“You haven’t seen it.”

Jack is aware of his looks, and he's had enough training in psychological manipulation tactics to know when his blue-eyed, blonde-haired boyishness is working on a target. He leans in and presses his pouting lips to the cold, hard surface of the mask. He feels Reaper respond with every muscle in his body. Jack has struck his mark dead-center. If the demon had a heart, it would be pounding. 

“I want to kiss you,” he purrs. “Let me kiss you, Reaper.”

Jack’s feels his skin sliding against Reaper’s as he his lowered gently to his feet. Once he is firmly standing on the floor, he is surprised to find that this man (or whatever he is) who had seemed to tower over him a moment ago, isn’t actually much taller than him. Maybe an inch or so at most. He’s much broader, though, and the heavy cloak of black vapor around his head makes him look a deal larger than he is. He runs his eyes down over the man’s chest to his midsection. His waist is trim and his abdomen is chiseled and muscular. A thick trail of curly black hair draws Jack’s eyes down to his…oh. Jesus.

Reaper’s body shakes with another one of those eerie, rasping laughs. “See something you like, Jack?”

Jack looks up and grins. “Hey, fair’s fair. You’ve been looking at mine.”

Reaper takes Jack’s wrists again (in his hands, this time) and guides them up to the mask. The black hood of vapor has dissipated and Jack can see short, black hair at the sides of his head.

“How does it—”

“Pull,” Reaper says. “I just have to let go of it.”

Jack cups the angular sides of the mask in his hands. He hesitates. He’s not sure what he’ll see and he almost wants to back out of this now. But Jack Morrison never backed down from anything. He draws a breath and slowly, almost reluctantly, draws the mask away from Reaper’s face. It slips out of his suddenly trembling hands. One of the vapor tendrils catches it effortlessly and sets it on the chair behind Reaper.

“You look like Reyes,” Jack says in a strained, almost accusing tone. “Why do you look like Reyes, Reaper?”

“This is your hallucination, kid,” Reaper says, with a voice that could almost belong to Reyes, if it were not so hoarse and weary. “Maybe you’re seeing what you want to see.”

“Your voice is different, now,” Jack says. “You sound like him, too.”

“Maybe you’re hearing what you want to hear,” Reaper smiles with Reyes’ much older, paler face.

“You think I fantasize about my mentor, but as an old smoke monster?”

“An old smoke monster?” Reaper says, with a chuckle. “Fuck, you kids are heartless. And that’s something, coming from me. I don’t even have a heart.”

He sounds more like Reyes with every word. It makes Jack’s stomach do that fluttery thing again.

“I don’t fantasize about fucking Captain Reyes, Reaper,” he says irritably.

Reaper smiles down at him. “Don’t you, Jack?”

Jack gazes up at him. There are deep scars all across his face, too. Just like the ones on his chest. His eyes are black. No iris, no white sclera. All black but for the hellish red points glowing where his pupils should be. Jack likes them. In fact, he finds himself rather captivated by Reaper’s version of Reyes’ face. Knowing that if Reyes were a weathered, scarred, black-eyed demon, he’d still be this attractive. But it isn’t just that he looks like the man Jack has been tormenting himself over for six months. He wants _Reaper_. This demon, this…whatever he is. He wants him more than he’s ever wanted anyone in his life. Aside from Reyes. Fuck it. This is just a dream, right? 

“I do,” Jack says. “I don’t think I ever admitted it before now, though. Even to myself.”

“What do you want him to…do to you,” Reaper says, pulling Jack close. “Or should I say, what do you want to do to him…?”

“I…ha—ah!” Jack gives a little cry as Reaper’s hard cock grinds against his. His sentence dissolves into urgent incoherence as the aching, teasing friction overwhelms his senses. “I want to—fuck…fuck me. Fuck me, Rey—Reaper.”

The smoke tendrils are all over Jack’s body in an instant, coiling around him, stroking his skin, lifting him off his feet. He surrenders to their embrace, going slack, letting himself be raised into the air. The ones around his thighs pull his legs apart. He doesn’t resist in the least. Reaper feels this and growls approvingly. He presses his mouth to Jack’s—already wet, already open for him—and slides his preternaturally long, serpentine tongue inside.

Jack’s head spins. His cock throbs and drools. But nothing is touching it. Not Reaper’s cock, not his smoke tentacles, nothing. He whines and nips at Reaper’s bottom lip with his teeth.

“So impatient,” Reaper laughs. “You little whore.”

Jack opens his eyes to assess his situation. He is suspended above the floor by his thighs and wherever else they’re holding onto him, but he’s right at Reaper’s eye level. He reaches for him, intending to pull himself closer, just to get the relief of pressing his aching cock up against Reaper’s body. The black tendrils are too fast for Jack. Before he can move an inch, they are constricting around his wrists like hot little snakes. They wrench his arms forcefully behind his back and hold them there. Jack struggles impotently against them, arching his back and glaring at Reaper.

“What the fuck!” he demands. “Let me go, Reaper! I thought you wanted to fuck!”

The tentacles pull him tantalizingly close again. Almost close enough to—

“Oh, cariño,” Reaper growls into Jack’s ear. “I am going to fuck every inch of you.”

As he says this, the tendril that is coiled around Jack’s throat slithers up the back of his neck. It creeps around the side of his head onto his face and pries his mouth open. Jack instinctively tries to bite down, but to no avail. The tentacle is slithering into his mouth, swelling and expanding to force it wider open. Jack’s eyes roll closed again as the thing slides into the back of his throat, fucking his mouth like a huge, oddly malleable dick.

He feels himself being tilted backward as others crawl up the backs of his thighs. They are spreading his ass apart, exposing him to Reaper’s fiery, black gaze. He bucks and shudders as one slithers around the sensitive rim of his asshole. Or maybe there are two. Or many. Jack can’t tell anymore. His neglected cock weeps onto his stomach, hot and swollen and aching for any kind of relief. He strains his arms helplessly against the tentacles that are binding them.

The huge, springy, dick one is still fucking his throat. A stream of drool runs down his cheek and dribbles onto the floor as he groans onto it. The ones between his legs are pushing slowly into the opening of his asshole. The throat fucking one withdraws abruptly.

“Jack, are you ok?” Reaper asks. “Is that too much?”

“Fuck!” Jack sputters. “My fucking cock is going to explode, you asshole! Give me something!”

Reaper sighs patiently. “That’s not what I asked. I asked if you’re ok.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” Jack chirps, in an incongruously agreeable tone, which makes Reaper laugh outright. “How do I let you know if I’m not?”

Reaper flashes a positively demonic grin. “Bite.”

The dick tentacle plunges itself into Jack’s mouth and goes back to work hammering his tonsils. Jack is pretty sure it’s gotten fatter. He’d laugh if his mouth weren’t being used like a blowup doll. He arches his spine and moans lasciviously (knowing Reaper can feel it) as the tentacles that have been slithering blithely into his asshole begin to writhe and expand inside him.

The tight ring of muscle around the opening aches and burns as it is stretched wider and wider, but Jack keeps his teeth to himself. Reaper is going slow and seems to be taking care that it’s never more than Jack can handle. It’s almost like he knows Jack’s body already. Knows his exact limits and how far he can push him. Of course he does. He’s a Reyes-shaped figment of Jack’s imagination in this insane hentai-fuck of a fever dream.

Jack’s body convulses and he gives a hoarse cry, muffled by his mouthful of the dick tentacle. The ones in his asshole have knotted up or swelled or something, forming a hard ball in the exact spot to pound against Jack’s prostate as they fuck him. Spasms of aching pleasure grip his gut and rattle his spine with each thrust. His balls feel like they’re swollen two sizes too big for his tight sack, and his cock is running like a faucet.

Suddenly, something hot and tight and velvety is squeezed down onto his rigid, tortured cock. It makes his eyes water from sheer relief. The tears roll down the sides of his face, where other smoke tendrils lap them up like little tongues. It could be a mouth or a tentacle or an asshole, for all he knows. He doesn’t give the slightest hint of a fuck what it is. It feels so good he thinks it must be all kinds of illegal. He bucks up with his hips, fucking desperately into whatever it is while his mouth and asshole are simultaneously and enthusiastically penetrated by Reaper’s smoke tendrils.

Jack’s eyes snap open as he feels Reaper’s actual hands around his neck. The steel claws are back and they dig into his skin. The dick tentacle evaporates into thin air and Reaper’s big, thick, gorgeous cock slides into Jack’s mouth in its place. He tastes the salty slick of pre-ejaculate, smells the man’s warm, musky, masculine smell. He gazes up into those fierce red-black eyes as Reaper holds him by the throat and fucks his mouth.

“I’m gonna come in your mouth, Jack,” Reaper says. “Swallow it all for me, like a good little slut.”

Jack just stares up at him with his big blue eyes and takes his cock to hilt. No gag reflex, no pulling back for breath. Fringe benefits of the super-soldier enhancements, or part of his fever-dream fantasy, he doesn’t know, but it drives Reaper over the edge almost immediately. He gives a few more sharp thrusts and practically explodes into Jack’s throat, flooding it with some kind of warm, viscous fluid that does not taste exactly like semen. Jack swallows it eagerly anyway and even sticks his pink tongue out to lap the excess off the head as Reaper pulls it out.

Reaper laughs and drags those steel claws down Jack’s ribcage, so hard they draw blood. This is all Jack can take. The tentacles fucking his asshole go rigid as rebar and hold him impaled, letting him feel his insides contract and spasm on them. His body jerks and twitches erratically as he comes so hard he sees stars, his cock spewing hot, rapid bursts into whatever part of Reaper he has been fucking.

He is gasping for breath, quaking with overstimulation, and drenched with sweat as the smoke tendrils lay him gently down in his bed. He finds himself gripped with sudden fear that Reaper will evaporate immediately, now that the fuck fantasy part of the dream is over. He opens his eyes, glancing about almost frantically, when Reaper lowers his large, heavy body onto Jack’s, blanketing him in soothing heat.

“Don’t go, Reaper,” he croaks hoarsely. “Please, just…stay till I fall asleep.”

“Of course, mi sol,” Reaper says gently, stroking Jack’s face with his bare hand. “You get some rest now. I’m not going anywhere.”

Jack sighs and his muscles all liquefy at once under the warm, solid weight of the man. His fevered mind drifts easily into deep, black oblivion. He stirs once, in his sleep, nuzzling his face into Reaper’s neck and murmuring the name, “Gabriel,” before he slips away again.

Some indeterminate length of time later, Jack wakes with a start and sits bolt-upright, heart pounding and stomach in knots. A bright light blinds him and his head whirls. He collapses back into his sweat-drenched sheets, panting and trembling all over. A warm, heavy hand is laid on his shoulder. Jack grasps at it and holds it tightly.

“Hey, boyscout, you’re alive,” a voice says cheerfully.

Jack blinks blearily in the cheery, sunlit room. It’s Reyes. Real Reyes. He’s smiling down at Jack, but beneath it, Jack can see genuine concern. There are dark circles under Reyes’ brown-black eyes and he looks pale and haggard.

“Yeah, I’m alive,” Jack says, managing a weak smile. “You think I wasn’t gonna make it or something?”

“Stubborn son of a bitch like you? Not for a second,” Reyes laughs. “I’ve just never seen someone go out for an entire forty-eight hours before. It hit you pretty fucking hard, huh?”

“I guess it did,” Jack says. “I’ve been unconscious for two days?”

“Yep. Two days. That’s a new record.”

“No wonder I’m so fucking hungry. And thirsty.”

“I bet. You want me to grab you something?”

“No, no,” Jack says. He is suddenly aware that he is still holding Reyes’ hand. He lets go of it. “No, don’t leave, Reyes. Please. I’m…still not feeling so hot.”

“Calm down, Morrison,” Reyes smirks, rising from his chair. “Once again, I’m just going to get you a drink from the fridge.”

Jack grins awkwardly as Reyes goes to the fridge and comes back with a sports drink for him. Jack thanks him and sips at it in a dilatory fashion.

“Hey, Reyes,” he says. “Thank you, for real. It’s really good to know you had my back like that while I was under.”

“Don’t sweat it, boyscout,” Reyes shrugs. “Everyone has a hard time with their last shot. But you wouldn’t believe some of the fucking crazy shit you said to me. I thought you were on about farming at first, but…you must have thought you were actually dying.”

Jack’s face turns white as a sheet. “What—what did I say?”

Reyes pauses and looks at him oddly. “Well…I’m pretty sure you were accusing me of being the grim reaper.”

“Jesus. Sorry about that, Reyes,” Jack laughs uneasily. Hopefully that’s all he’d said.

He reaches down absently to scratch an itch in his side and yanks his hand back, wincing with pain. His blood runs cold and he looks down in disbelief. There, on either side of his torso, are identical sets of four long, deep slashes, still fresh and bleeding.

 

 


End file.
